Anima Vita

© Taniel Lo, 2026

ISBN 978-5-0070-0164-9

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Chapter 1

Late August. The air is still warm, but there’s already a subtle, barely perceptible chill hanging in it, and it smells of copper from fallen leaves and damp earth. The taxi, crunching over gravel, stopped in front of tall cast-iron gates. Entwined with wrought-iron grapevines, an ornate inscription was visible on them: «Anima Vita.»

I paid the driver, and the car, turning around, disappeared around a bend in the forest road, leaving me in a ringing silence. The rustle of leaves and the distant cry of a bird only amplified it. I looked down: in my hands, I was unconsciously clutching a sheet of heavy paper with the elegant but timeworn logo of a law firm. And that very letter, attached to the dry language of the will.

«My dear,

If you are reading these lines, it means curiosity has outweighed common sense. And that is a good thing. «Anima Vita’ is not just a patch of land. It is a breath. It is a covenant. The month you will spend here is not a formality. It is a trial, both for you and for this place. Care for my wards. Listen to the forest. Do not seek magic — allow it to find you.

The house and everything in it is at your disposal. Damon, the keeper, will help, but do not expect enthusiasm from him. He is devoted to «Anima Vita’ more than any relative, myself included.

With hope,

Margaret von Dreyer»

«To refuse means to forfeit the inheritance entirely,» I muttered, raising my eyes to the gates. «Well, Aunt Margaret. If you’re inviting me to play your game — let’s give it a try.»

My childhood and early adolescence I spent on Grandma’s farm — the smell of hay, hands in the dirt, messing around with yard dogs and the sheep I helped to herd. As a child, I knew how to read the pre-storm sky and knew every wild strawberry clearing. And then I grew up and, it seemed, traded boundless fields for endless corridors, my anxiety becoming an old friend — annoying, but familiar.

And then — bam! — in the middle of this closed loop, I’m offered a month’s stay on a private nature reserve somewhere in the middle of nowhere. From that one sentence wafted not just a return to childhood, but a whiff of mystery, old money, and a complex mixture of smells — lavender from the garden, floor polish, and something wild, animalistic, something that awakened a long-forgotten instinct in me.

I tore my eyes from the letter. Beyond the gates stretched a well-kept gravel path leading to a single-story stone manor in the Art Nouveau style. The house seemed solid and squat, as if it had cozily sunk into the earth beneath a massive roof of dark slate. It looked old, but not neglected: clean windows, tidy shutters, wild grapevines twisting up its walls. To the left, the roofs of enclosures were visible; to the right, the glass wall of a greenhouse glinted in the sun. And behind the house began a dense, slightly hilly forest, stretching toward the blue of distant mountains.

Before I could find a bell or a side gate, the heavy oak door of the manor creaked. A man stepped out onto the porch.

He looked like he’d stepped off the cover of a magazine about the rugged romance of the wild. Tall, in a worn, dark flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Jeans tucked into sturdy boots. Sharp features, a tense, square jaw with a light stubble, and eyes the color of young pine needles in morning mist held the silence of backwoods and a secret, animal life. And those eyes were now studying me from the top step of the porch — without open hostility, but with such dense wariness that I felt uneasy.

«Damn,» a dumbfounded thought flashed through my head. «Aunt Margot really could have warned me that the keeper here is… well, all of this.»

As he descended the steps, his movements were confident and economical, like a predator’s. A few steps away from me, on the other side of the gate, he halted.

«Damon,» he introduced himself curtly, his voice low and slightly hoarse. He didn’t offer his hand, just nodded toward my suitcase. «Margaret wrote that you would be coming. There’s no time for a slow start. Feeding is in an hour. Let’s go, I’ll show you where you’ll be staying.»

His gaze slid over my city coat and neat shoes, and a barely noticeable, skeptical crease flickered at the corner of his mouth. He was waiting for my reaction, the first word or action in this new, strange world.

I deliberately slowly looked him over from head to toe, finally fixing my gaze directly on his eyes.

«Good afternoon, Damon, pleased to meet you. I had a good trip, thank you. A little tired, though. Oh, how kind of you to get right down to business. Well then, show me where I’ll be living, Well, aren’t you a sweetheart,» I said with heavy sarcasm.

The corner of his mouth twitched, but not into a smile. Rather, a fleeting expression crossed his face — that he had seen right through me and appreciated my audacity. The cold green of his eyes remained impenetrable.

«Afternoon’s been lousy,» he countered dryly, looking at the heavy clouds gathering over the forest. «Don’t thank me yet. Save your gratitude. You’re going to need it.»

He turned his back, demonstrating the conversation was over, and pushed the massive gate leaf. The cast iron groaned, but yielded easily. «Let’s go. Don’t forget your luggage.»

Damon didn’t offer to help with the suitcase, but simply walked ahead along the gravel path, clearly expecting me to follow. His broad back in the worn fabric was a silent reproach to my supposed city-bred softness.

Along the way, he threw out short, tightly wrung explanations, without looking back:

«The main house. Kitchen, library, your room is on the east side. There’s hot water, but the water heater is temperamental. For housekeeping matters — see Victoria. She takes care of the house. The enclosures on the left — that’s where Lyra and the others are. On the right, the greenhouse and the physic garden; Luka, the vet, looks after those. You’ll meet them later.»

I silently nodded to his back, trying both to memorize the route and to quell my inner irritation. What gave him the right to speak to me like a raw recruit on a parade ground? But my anger began to smolder, giving way to another, far more vexing observation: I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his back. A broad, straight back under the rough flannel, with the clear silhouette of shoulder blades. And shoulders… God, what shoulders. Not the kind absurdly pumped up in a gym, but the natural, powerful kind, built not for a mirror but for real work.

On the porch, he finally stopped and turned around, assessing whether I was keeping up.

«The rules are simple. Onto the sanctuary grounds — only with my permission. No going into the forest alone. Don’t tease the animals, don’t hand-feed them without permission. Any questions?»

As he spoke, a shadow detached from the house’s cornice and swooped down smoothly, settling on the old cast-iron lantern grate beside me. It was a large black raven. Its feathers shimmered not with blue, but like polished sterling silver. It cocked its head to the side and stared at me intently with one gleaming eye. In its beak, it clutched something small and glinting.

Damon glanced at the bird, and something akin to annoyance flashed across his face.

«Corbin. Pay him no mind.» But his tone carried a strange, almost respectful note.

The raven cawed once and dropped a small object at my feet. It turned out to be an old, verdigris-encrusted fragment of a clock spring. Then it flapped its wings and disappeared around the corner of the house.

I bent down, picked up the find, straightened up, and said:

«I have a million questions, but they can wait until I’ve found the bathroom. Thank you for the thorough briefing.»

With those words, I took my suitcase, walked past him into the house, and brushed his shoulder lightly.

My shoulder only grazed his arm, but I felt the muscles under the rough fabric tense. He didn’t recoil, but stepped sharply aside, letting me pass; his gaze grew even colder, if that was possible.

A sharp, almost physical wave of shame hit my temples. God, what am I doing? Taunting him like a schoolgirl? But along with the shame, another, strange current ran through me — an awareness of his strength, hidden under his shirt, and his instantaneous, restrained reaction. He had flinched back as if I’d burned him. Or was he afraid of touch? «Wow,» another bitter-ironic thought flashed through my head. «With a fuse like that. Too bad it’s clearly pointed in the wrong direction.»

«The room is at the end of the corridor to the right,» he threw over my shoulder, not moving from the spot. His voice was level, but with apparent irritation. «The key is in the lock. The washroom is across the hall.»

I walked down the long corridor, feeling his fixed gaze on my back. The smell of old wood, wax, and dried herbs hung in the air.

The room turned out to be spacious, but ascetic. A high ceiling, a parquet floor that creaked underfoot. A large window faced east — looking out onto the clearing before the forest. A simple bed with a wicker headboard, a dresser, a writing desk, and a chair. On the desk stood an empty vase and a stack of clean linens. Everything was clean, but without frills.

As I looked around, my eye caught an oval mirror in a dark wooden frame above the dresser. Out of curiosity, or perhaps to reassure myself that I was still here after this insane day, I stepped closer.

From the mirror, a tired woman looked back at me, with a face I jokingly called «too ordinary to remember.» Chestnut hair, unruly across my shoulders after the journey, set off the urban pallor of my skin — a sad contrast to the tan of my small town years. Brown eyes — not bottomless and mysterious, like in novels, just brown, currently shadowed by the blue of sleeplessness underneath. The only thing I liked about myself were my cheekbones, sharp, despite all my love for pizza. «At least my lips aren’t bitten,» the next thought flickered. On the whole — the face of an office worker, slightly lost in someone else’s fairy tale. I grimaced at my reflection. «Well then, heiress? Shall we?»

Turning from the mirror, I heard sounds drifting in through the open window: a distant, hoarse roar (Lyra, probably), a calm male voice humming a tune (most likely that very Luka), and the ceaseless rustle of leaves.

In my hand, I still clutched the clock fragment gifted by the raven. On the brass surface, beneath a layer of patina, a fine engraving could be made out — not numbers, but rather a tangled pattern resembling a labyrinth.

About ten minutes later, after I had managed to find the washroom (old-fashioned, but with working plumbing) and somewhat collected myself, Damon’s clear, low voice came from deep within the house:

«Fifteen minutes, at the main enclosure. Don’t be late. Lyra dislikes when her schedule is disrupted.»

There was no hint of invitation in his tone. It was an order.

I rolled my eyes indignantly — luckily, he couldn’t see it — and opened my suitcase. I had left his skepticism at our meeting unremarked, but now I decided to answer differently. My grandmother had taught me the most important thing: if work lies ahead — dress and act accordingly.

I changed into thick, well-worn jeans, an old t-shirt, and threw on a black zip-up hoodie. On its back, a sarcastic inscription read, «Life’s a bitch, and so am I.» I put on sturdy, high-laced boots, tied my hair into a bun, and went downstairs.

Halfway down the corridor, I thought I heard a soft creak of a floorboard behind me. Turning around, I saw no one, but a black tail with a silver sheen flickered out of the shadows, disappearing around the corner. Corbin, it seemed, was watching me.

Chapter 2

The hall smelled of freshly brewed coffee. The kitchen door was ajar, and a soft clinking of dishes drifted out from inside.

Damon was waiting by the open front door, leaning against the frame and looking toward the forest. Hearing my footsteps, he turned around. His gaze, swift and assessing, swept over my new appearance — the worn jeans, the defiant hoodie, the practical boots. His eyebrows rose for a second, not in approval, but rather in surprise. He noticed the difference: it wasn’t just a change of clothes, but a transformation into someone practical and… familiar. The skeptical crease by his mouth didn’t go anywhere, but a shadow of appraisal appeared in his eyes, replacing contemptuous indifference.

«Well, did you take note of that?» flashed through my head with a mix of gloating and strange excitement. I had managed to surprise him. A small victory. But why the hell did his slow, studying gaze make the blood rush to my cheeks? It’s just a look. Though, looking at those cheekbones and that stubborn jawline, it’s easy to forget about simplicity.»

«Quick,» he noted, and that single word held a hint of disappointment. He had clearly expected a delay. My readiness turned out to be an unexpected move, slightly disarming.

He silently nodded toward the path leading to the enclosures and walked ahead, but this time not as briskly, allowing me to walk beside him. He began to speak again, and his tone became a little less detached, more businesslike.

«Our main resident is Lyra. A Caucasian lynx. Independent, intelligent. Today is her check-up. We’ll need to go into the enclosure, let her sniff you while I check her paws and coat condition. You need to stand calmly, don’t look her directly in the eyes for too long, but don’t turn away either. Breathe evenly. She’ll sense if you’re afraid.»

He cast a quick glance at me, as if checking my reaction to this information.

We approached a spacious enclosure, fenced with high mesh netting, with trees, boulders, and a small stream inside. In the shadow of one of the boulders, blending with the stone and the shade, lay a large cat. Her fur was smoky gray with dark spots, and when she slowly raised her head, I was pierced by two burning amber discs. The gaze was aware, incredibly alive and intelligent, full of wild, primal focus.

Lyra stood up, stretched with unhurried, regal grace, and, not taking her golden gaze off me, took several silent steps in our direction, stopping a meter from the mesh. She sniffed the air, the wide tufts on her ears twitching.

I sat down on the ground, cross-legged, in front of the enclosure entrance and extended my hand toward the mesh at a sufficient distance for her to smell it, but not reach through the openings.

«Hello, my good girl,» I said affectionately. «What a beauty you are.»

Damon froze. He had already started turning the key in the enclosure lock, but my movement stopped him. He spun around sharply, alarm flaring in his eyes — not for me, but for the animal, for a breach of protocol.

But before he could say anything, something unexpected happened.

Lyra slowly approached the mesh. Her powerful paws stepped soundlessly. She inclined her head and deeply, noisily inhaled the air several times, sniffing my palm. Her amber eyes narrowed, studying me. Then she let out a low, hoarse sound, something between a purr and a rumble, and… lightly, almost politely, rubbed her cheek against the mesh where my hand was. It was a gesture of acknowledgment, of greeting.

Damon exhaled. The expression in his eyes shifted to profound amazement. He watched in silence for several seconds, his stern face utterly disconcerted.

«She… doesn’t do that with newcomers,» he finally said, his voice muted, almost to himself. «Usually, she retreats deeper into the enclosure and observes from the shadows. For weeks.»

Something inside me both lurched and unfurled at the same time. This was more than just «quick.» This was… acknowledgment. From him. From a man whose approval, I realized with annoyance, had for some reason already begun to mean something.

He looked at me again, and now his gaze held not just appraisal, but burgeoning curiosity. He slowly turned the key, opened the gate slightly, but didn’t enter, signaling for me to stay put.

«Lyra, come here, girl,» he called calmly but confidently.

The lynx, after casting one last perceptive glance at me, turned and trotted gracefully over to Damon, allowing him to conduct a quick examination of her paws. He worked quickly and professionally, his large hands unexpectedly gentle.

I stood still, watching. Those very hands, which seemed built for hard labor, now moved with surgical precision and care. The contrast was staggering. Against my will, a thought raced through my head: «God, if those hands could just…» The thought broke off, unfinished, which made it all the more searing. I abruptly looked away.

While checking, he said, without looking at me:

«You didn’t bait her with food. You didn’t try to establish eye contact. You… sat down. Lowered yourself to her level. And you spoke. In a voice…» He faltered, searching for the word. «In which there was no fear. There was respect.»

Having finished the exam, he released Lyra. She made a circle around the enclosure and returned to the mesh opposite me, lying down nearby, simply observing.

Damon came out, locked the gate, and wiped his hands on his trousers. He stood, looking down at me, and I could feel his intent gaze once more.

«How did you know how to do that?» he asked directly. The question didn’t sound like an attack, but like a genuine desire to understand.

«I love animals,» I answered simply, shrugging. «And they love me.»

I stood up and brushed off my jeans.

«In the city, I volunteer at homeless shelters,» I added, a little quieter. I said it almost offhandedly, not expecting a reaction. Just to fill the silence. And so that he might understand that I’m not quite the helpless city-dweller he took me for.

Damon listened in silence. He didn’t reply, only nodded. But it was a different kind of nod — not a formal one, but one signifying that the information had been noted and something in his internal picture of the world had shifted.

«A good thing,» he finally said, and his voice lost some of its icy hoarseness. The warmth breaking through the ice in those two words heated me far more than the morning sun. «But here… they’re different. Not homeless. They are guardians.»

He looked at Lyra, who, lying down, was slowly wagging the tip of her tail, as if listening to our conversation.

And in that moment, I saw him not as a watchman, not as an overseer, but as a person for whom this place was not a job. It was something sacred. Something personal. And he had just opened the door to this sanctuary of his, just a crack. A sharp, almost painful wave of tenderness mixed with an inexplicable sadness. He was so beautiful when he spoke of his work. So whole. And so… hopelessly alone in this role of his, guardian of guardians. I suddenly had a wild urge to say something that would erase that sadness from his face. But I just nodded silently, understanding that any words now would be superfluous.

«Let’s go,» Damon broke the pause. «I’ll show you the rest. And introduce you to Luka. He’s in charge of their health.»

The keeper led me further along the path. In the next enclosures, I saw creatures no less remarkable: a fox with fur the color of autumn copper and an incredibly intelligent gaze; a pair of raccoons whose facial «masks» were not black, but silvery-gray — they were busily washing something in a basin of water, glancing sideways at me; an owl with feathers shimmering bronze, who sat completely motionless, though I could feel her all-seeing attention.

Unexpectedly, Damon stopped and, without looking at me, said:

«The hoodie. „Life’s a bitch…“»

He paused, and I saw his shoulders give a slight shudder. Was he… laughing? No, it was more of a quiet snort, a suppressed, internal sound.

«Cheeky,» he stated, and for the first time, a shadow of something remotely resembling approval crept into his tone. Or, at least, an acknowledgment of my audacity.

The path led to a small, cozy building resembling a laboratory with large windows. From the open door, over the sounds of Vivaldi, a pleasant baritone voice drifted out, humming along. A young man in glasses and a light-colored lab coat, adorned with several bright stains that looked like marker traces, appeared in the doorway. Seeing us, he smiled broadly, but his gaze lingered for a moment on Damon’s motionless figure, as if checking if it was okay.

«Ah, company!» he exclaimed, his voice carrying genuine, slightly hurried joy. «I thought you were patrolling in proud solitude again, Damon. Luka,» he introduced himself, now turning to me and wiping his hands on his coat before extending one. «Pleased to meet you! Finally, a living face instead of a black-and-white photograph from the file.»

The rush of his friendliness was so unexpected that I lost my footing for a second. After Damon’s behavior, it was like a sip of hot tea in a blizzard. I almost physically felt the vise of tension inside me unclench. «Well, there you go,» I thought with relief, «at least someone here is normal.»

His handshake was warm and energetic, and his gaze, glancing over my hoodie, sparkled with merry mischief.

«And with taste, I see!» He gave an appreciative chuckle.

I laughed involuntarily, and the sound was sincere and light. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught Damon’s figure. And that fleeting contrast pierced me with a strange thought: Luka was like a ray of sun — pleasant, warm, but… simple. He lacked that magnetic, dangerous depth, that tension of silence that emanated from the man standing behind. And for some reason, even breathing more freely next to Luka, I couldn’t turn my inner gaze away from that difference.

Damon, standing a little apart, crossed his arms over his chest. His face had turned to stone.

Could my laughter, my relaxation be irritating him? Or was he just jealous of the attention? The last thought was so absurd and so tempting that I nearly snorted. «No, Annie, don’t get your hopes up. He’s just guarding his daily routine from an invasion of noisy elements.» But even that sober thought couldn’t suppress the burgeoning feeling: for some reason, I wanted even a trace of a lively reaction to appear on his stone face, too. And for it to be my doing.

«Annie,» I smiled back, picking up his light tone.

«Annie! Excellent. Well then, how do you find our abode? Lyra didn’t frighten you? She’s a lady with character,» Luka continued, as if afraid a pause would set in.

«Character is when they growl and hiss,» Damon said quietly, still looking away. «She sat down and listened.»

Luka just waved a hand.

«I see, I see, contact has been established! Lyra is our best diagnostician. If she accepted you, it means your soul is in order. Unlike some,» he winked, less confidently, in the keeper’s direction.

Damon snorted and turned away, pretending to study a branch of the nearest tree with extraordinary interest.

«Come in, come in,» Luka gestured, inviting me into the building. «I’m actually on a coffee break. I’ll show you our mini-lab, tell you who’s sick with what, and most importantly — who our biggest thief and troublemaker is.»

Inside, it smelled of antiseptic, fresh herbs, and coffee. A steaming mug stood on the table; around it, laid out in perfect but idiosyncratic order, were medical instruments, stacks of papers, and several strange objects: dried plants, bundles of feathers, a small, glittering stone.

The atmosphere here was different — scholarly, slightly mad, but open. Luka rattled off facts and jokes, and I nodded, trying to absorb it all. But part of my attention, like a compass needle, stubbornly deflected back toward the door.